


Some Dark Things ....

by Mums_the_Word



Category: Law & Order: SVU, White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Bank Fraud, Chechen mobsters, Gen, Mentions of a past underage rape, Suicide, child predators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28874409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mums_the_Word/pseuds/Mums_the_Word
Summary: White Collar has a case that dovetails into one being investigated by the Special Victims Unit of the NYPD. Peter Burke and Olivia Benson put their heads together, but it’s not just about the case. Somehow, Neal Caffrey becomes the primary focus of their concern.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 19
Kudos: 77





	1. Chapter 1

Neal and Peter arrived at an upscale townhouse on the Upper East Side. It was the residence of a bank president with a penchant for gambling. When his loses exceeded his wins, he had begun to secretly siphon off bank money from dormant accounts. When his debt climbed, he tried to solve the problem by foolishly getting into bed with a branch of the Chechen mob and borrowing money from them at enormously inflated usury rates. The way the panicked White Collar criminal saw it, that was his last and only option.

As luck would have it, an internal auditor at the bank had spotted some discrepancies and blew the whistle to the FDIC, who, in turn, notified the FBI. The terrified banker had fled leaving everything behind including his wife. Peter and Neal had come to interview the woman today. Hopefully, she could shed some light on where her husband had gone. They would try to convince her that if her spouse turned himself in, it was a better alternative than being hunted by the FBI as well as the Chechens.

The scene that met them when they arrived at the residence was like a beehive of busy activity. There were three NYPD patrol cars on site as well as two black Crown Vic sedans and the coroner’s vehicle. “This doesn’t bode well,” Neal said to his partner.

“No, it doesn’t,” Peter replied as he came to a stop at a space by the curb and corralled one of the cops. “So, what’s going on?” he demanded to know as he flashed his FBI credentials.

“All I know is that I’m told there’s a dead body inside, and I’m supposed to stay out here and secure the scene,” was the answer. “The detective running the show is inside and her name’s Captain Olivia Benson.”

Peter jogged up the front steps of the townhouse with Neal in tow. Beyond the marbled foyer with its crystal chandelier was a huge open room with a ceiling soaring at least three stories. There was a sort of architectural bridge across the second level hemmed in by a sturdy oak railing. What was glaringly out of place was a long streamer of what appeared to be knotted silk scarves dangling from that railing but stopping six feet above the Oriental rug on the floor before them.

Since there were only two women in the room, at least live ones, Peter walked over to the one hovering above another, probably the coroner, who was examining the body of a middle-aged female corpse dressed in a bathrobe. He again showed his credentials and introduced himself and Neal.

“I’m Special Agent Peter Burke of the FBI’s White Collar Division and this is my associate, Neal Caffrey,” he began.

“Olivia Benson, Special Victims Unit,” an attractive middle-age woman in a tweed blazer replied as she held out her hand.

Peter glanced at the coroner, who was now covering the body with a shroud. “Who is the unfortunate victim?”

“The homeowner,” Detective Benson answered shortly. “Now can you explain why you’ve suddenly popped up at my crime scene. Is the FBI interested in this woman?”

“Damn,” Peter swore softly as he gazed at the covered body. “We’d come to see her about her husband, who is a person of interest in an ongoing Federal investigation regarding pilfered funds at the bank where he worked. He’s been on the run from both us and the Chechens, and we came today to interview her about his whereabouts. It would seem like the Mob beat us to the punch and decided to make a very clear statement to a man who has made himself scarce. But I’m a bit confused by your presence,” Peter admitted. “Why is SVU running this homicide?”

Olivia Benson was forthcoming. “Because we got a call from the victim’s sister, who lives up in Maine. She told us that her sibling had gotten in touch and admitted to being raped by several men who came looking for her husband. She said she was afraid to go to the police because they threatened her life if she did.”

Peter looked disgusted. “So, it would seem they decided to eliminate that possibility entirely. Not only did they rape the poor soul, but they also came back to kill her by hanging her up like a piece of meat in a butcher shop.”

Benson was shaking her head. “We don’t think they were responsible for the hanging. We believe it was suicide based on a note she left behind.”

The detective then walked over to a side table and picked up a piece of expensive stationery containing a handwritten message displaying beautiful cursive. It was securely encased in a clear evidence bag and Peter read it as Neal looked over his shoulder.

_To Whom It Make Concern:_

_I am so very tired of being a victim. My husband made me a victim when he decided that his addiction could only be solved by getting involved with the wrong people. Then those awful people made me a victim all over again when they maliciously raped me as punishment for my husband’s poor judgment. I’ll never be me again, so what’s the use of continuing on with a life that has become an ungodly nightmare. I can only hope that if my husband hears of my suicide, he will realize how he drove me to it. His acts were as brutal as the Chechens._

At the bottom of the note was the clear signature of the deceased.

“Of course, we’ll do our due diligence and compare handwriting samples and take fingerprints from the note, but the tone seems legitimate for a woman teetering on the edge of something beyond her control,” Benson said. “And, of course, our coroner will do an autopsy to look for evidence of traumatic intercourse. Then we’ll have cause to search for the ghouls who violated her.”

Peter was shaking his head sadly. “Well, keep us in the loop, please,” he said softly as he began walking away. Neal, however, seemed rooted to the spot, so Detective Benson searched his face to get a read on the young man.

“I guess you don’t see many dead bodies working in White Collar, Agent Caffrey,” she began quietly.

“I’m not an agent, Detective Benson. I’m a consultant,” Neal answered the woman truthfully.

“Well, just the same, seeing a victim can be upsetting,” she answered.

“I hate the word, _‘victim,’_ being used in any context,” Neal retorted sharply. “People are only victims if they view themselves that way.”

“That seems a bit harsh, Mr. Caffrey,” Olivia responded. “Not everyone has the fortitude to get past terrible trauma or overwhelming heartache. Maybe we shouldn’t be judgmental because we haven’t lived their lives.”

Neal was ready to argue. “Rape is not really sexual in nature, but rather about power and control. But I’m sure you already know that.”

“What you’re saying is certainly true,” Benson admitted as she looked at Neal and cocked her head waiting to see where this was going.

The young man actually appeared angry as he further stated, “Someone can certainly dominate a person physically, but they can’t dominate your spirit if you refuse to let them. You shouldn’t just throw in the towel and see yourself as not worthy of living because of the acts of depraved individuals. That means the bad guys win. You should just get past it, never look back, and live the life you’re meant to live.”

“That’s a quick down and dirty assessment by someone who just walked in the door today,” Olivia remarked softly.

“Yeah, maybe your right,” Neal backtracked, looking almost a bit embarrassed by his confrontational analysis. “I should catch up with my partner,” he added as he turned to go.

Olivia stared after someone who looked far too young to work at the FBI, and who also seemed far too jaded for his age. Something was niggling in the far reaches of her brain. She had been involved in SVU for a long time and had seen all kinds of reactions. What this handsome consultant had said set off flares, and she was determined to do some digging to satisfy her own nebulous feeling about him.

Sgt. Tutuola was descending the stairs as Neal was leaving the scene of the crime. Olivia Benson glanced at her dependable coworker when she was able to tear her eyes away from Neal as he fell in step beside Peter Burke. “Fin, I need you to check somebody out.”

“I’m assuming you mean Mr. GQ,” the seasoned detective snorted as he followed her sight line.

“Yeah, his name’s Neal Caffrey and he’s supposed to be with the FBI, but he seems awfully young,” Tutuola’s boss said thoughtfully.

“Seriously?” Fin responded. “The older dude with him seems like a Feeb—the usual Brooks Brothers suit and wingtips, but his pal is rockin’ tailored vintage threads. And what kind of government agent actually wears a fedora?”

“The agent tagged him as an associate, but Caffrey told me he was a consultant of some kind,” Olivia provided as much information as she had at hand.

“I’ll get on it when I get back to the station,” Fin promised.

Later that afternoon, Fin approached Olivia in her office. “Got the skinny on your boy,” he told her. “I knew something was off about him. He’s a paroled felon from Sing Sing. Started out young on the path to rack and ruin by perfecting his many talents—con man, forger, thief. That was all before Agent Peter Burke took him down and put him away. Strangely enough, it was that same agent who later took him on as a partner, although I doubt there’s a lot of trust goin’ on since the dude wears a tracking anklet. Guess that’s just a precaution since the guy did break out of Supermax as slick as butter.”

“Any information about his younger years when he was growing up?” Benson asked curiously.

“Nah, I drew a blank there, but maybe, for whatever reason, the Feds sanitized his file.”

Benson was pensive. “They came down on him hard if he was shipped off to Ossining for White Collar crimes. Sing Sing is for the worst of the worst. How long did he spend there?”

Fin checked his notes. “Just short of a nickel—to be more precise, four months short of his original four year sentence. Walked out the door as bold as you please in a security guard’s uniform, but Burke found him just hours later and shipped his ass back. Then, all of a sudden, they’re joined at the hip. Sounds a bit hinky to me.”

“Do you think you could check out any incident reports that involved Caffrey during his incarceration. I’m particularly interested in anything that got him checked into the infirmary. Apparently our young mystery man doesn’t like the word _‘victim,’_ so that got me to wondering if perhaps he was one himself recently.”

“Liv, don’t we have enough on our plate already? Do you really want to drum up more business on a hunch?” Finn asked logically.

“Over the years of doing this, I think I’ve developed a sixth sense about these things. I could be wrong, but on the chance that a ‘victim’ is hurting, then I have to see it through,” Olivia answered quietly.

“That’s gonna be a tough gig, seein’ as how the guy didn’t step up and ask for your help,” Fin replied.

“Unfortunately, a lot of them don’t, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do my job and try to see if I can help. You know me, Fin. I’ll tread lightly and handle it as a delicate issue, and maybe I’ll start with his handler. If they’re close, Mr. Caffrey may have confided in him, but I can’t rely on a Federal agency getting a victim the help they need.”

“Well, good luck bucking the system,” Fin snorted. “Now, I’m gonna try to do the same thing when I ask for records from a Federal pen.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“He was a model prisoner, according to the warden,” Sgt. Tutuola informed his chief later in the day about Neal Caffrey. “No incidents and no infirmary visits.”

“Okay, then I’m going to have to go that extra mile and have a private talk with Agent Peter Burke,” Olivia Benson said resolutely.


	2. Chapter 2

Olivia Benson placed that call to Peter Burke the next day. “Agent Burke, I was hoping that we could have a short meeting here at my office, if that’s convenient for you. It’s about yesterday’s case that seems to have intertwined our two departments.”

“Has the husband suddenly popped up on your radar?” Peter asked hopefully.

“No, he hasn’t, but our victim’s sister is in town making funeral arrangements for interment of the recently deceased right here in the city. Maybe the gutless wonder of a spouse will make an appearance,” Olivia answered.

“Thanks for the heads up,” Peter replied. “We’ll have undercovers posted at the cemetery to see if they can get eyes on him. How is your case coming along? Was the lady raped and was her death really a suicide?”

Benson was into sharing. “It seems that way. Our coroner determined there was recent vaginal and anal tearing that would validate her claim of rape. The suicide note contained only her fingerprints, and handwriting analysis confirmed it was penned by the victim. We did manage to get a few unidentified partial prints from the house, so we’re working in tandem with our Crime division to see where that goes, although I’m not hopeful at this point in time. We’ll continue to work the case, but I’m afraid that finding her wayward husband falls squarely within your bailiwick.”

“So, if that’s it in a nutshell, is it still necessary for us to meet in person?” Peter asked.

“I’m afraid it is, Agent Burke. I have other concerns of a rather sensitive nature that I wanted to run by you,” Olivia insisted. “I think it would be best if you came alone to hear what I have to say.”

“Okay, then I guess I’ll stop by in a few,” Peter replied curiously.

Peter made his way through the bullpen, telling Diana Berrigan that he’d be out of the office for a bit, but he’d be reachable by phone. Neal’s head popped up. “So where are you headed?”

“Personal business, Buddy. Now be good while I’m gone,” Peter warned his CI.

~~~~~~~~~~

A half hour later, Peter found himself seated across the desk from Chief Benson. She had her hands clasped loosely in front of her and she looked serious. “Agent Burke, I had a short interaction yesterday with your associate, Neal Caffrey, and I have some concerns about the demeanor he displayed.”

Peter looked shocked. “Was Neal disrespectful? Usually, he’s a perfect gentleman, especially around women.”

“No, he wasn’t disrespectful in the least,” the SVU chief assured her guest. “It was what he said about being a victim that made me begin to wonder if it wasn’t the result of some sort of personal projecting.”

“I don’t follow,” Peter admitted.

“Agent Burke, I have dealt with innumerable victims of sexual abuse and sexual attacks, and by and large, it is women who find themselves the target of that horrendous crime. Each of those unfortunate people is certainly unique in how they handled that trauma. Some women appear to be broken, while others are ready to castrate their assailant if we can apprehend them. They are angry, confused, mortified—the whole gamut of conflicted emotions.”

“I can certainly understand that, but how does that pertain to Neal? Did he say something callous about the recent victim?”

Olivia sighed. “He had an issue with us labeling her as a _victim_ , which made me think that something happened in his own life that made him have such strong opinions.”

Well, that statement took the wind out of Peter’s sails and he wasn’t prepared for the swift spasm in his gut. “Are you saying that you think Neal was raped at some point in time?”

“We did some digging on our own and we know he was incarcerated in a place that was certainly no Disneyland,” Olivia whispered softly. “He’s young, he’s good looking, and he’d be no match for sex-starved depraved inmates who suddenly found they had a hard on.”

“Nope—didn’t happen,” Peter said in denial. “Neal and I had a recent discussion about that very subject, and he claimed he had protection money smuggled in to keep him safe from any of that stuff. He’s never lied to me, so I have to believe what he said was the truth.”

Olivia’s face softened. “Would it be so terrible if that was a lie he did tell you, Agent Burke? Men handle sexual assaults differently than woman. Men think it’s reasonable that females, being the ‘weaker’ sex, couldn’t have stopped what happened to them. On the flip side of the coin, men are supposed to be strong and quite able to fight off their attackers or die trying. Being a victim of rape destroys their macho image of themselves, so they are more likely to not report that particular crime because they’d feel stigmatized and ashamed. By denying the experience, they feel they can preserve their sense of dignity. Some men suppress it because they mistakenly equate male rape as somehow related to homosexuality.

So, you see, a man being violated is perhaps a lot more emotionally complicated an issue than for women, who have dedicated, sympathetic advocates trying to get justice for them. But no matter how far down men try to bury their traumatic emotions from the light of day, they’re still there festering like a splinter deeply embedded in a finger or a hand.”

Peter sat for a few minutes digesting all this. “If Neal had an experience of that nature, he seems to have managed to rise above it. If he doesn’t want to rehash something nasty, then perhaps we should respect his right to privacy.”

Olivia sighed. “Look, Agent Burke, you know your CI better than I do. I just felt the need to put it out there to alert you to a potential problem which may manifest itself somewhere down the road. PTSD is a very real thing, and if the right buttons are pushed, it could explode as unexpectedly as some pressure cooker bomb.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Peter said in a clipped tone as he rose from the chair. “If I feel that Neal’s work ethic is compromised in any way in the future, then perhaps I’ll visit his past, but only if it seems germane.”

Olivia Benson had been politely put in her place. It would seem that this Federal Agent was a bit miffed by what he considered her meddling in something that was none of her business. She wondered if her intuitiveness had really gone haywire, but she doubted it, just as she doubted a handler would be concerned enough to investigate further. Maybe he didn’t think a past sexual trauma was an important enough issue to be considered _germane_.

~~~~~~~~~~

When Peter arrived back at the office, he stopped at Neal’s desk. “Let’s take an early lunch, Buddy.”

Neal was certainly up for anything that got him away from a case of a shady banker who was stupid as well as a coward. The pair walked a bit until they reached a small Italian trattoria not far from the Federal Building. Peter insisted on a tucked away table in the back of the sparsely occupied restaurant. He didn’t say much after they sat down. He just fiddled with the cloth napkin on the table, folding it and refolding it in different configurations.

“If you need a crash course in origami, I could help you with that,” Neal teased.

“I guess I just need something to do with my hands,” Peter said in his own defense, as if that made any sense.

“So, what’s eating you, Peter?” Neal decided to take the bull by the horns. “I’m sure it has something to do with your mysterious jaunt away from the office this morning.”

“Actually, it had something to do with you,” Peter answered ominously.

Neal was startled but was quite proficient in hiding it as he mentally ran through what he had been up to in his clandestine search for Kate’s killer. “Care to share?” he asked nonchalantly as he tamped down his wary feelings.

“Well, I met with Chief Olivia Benson over in SVU, and she’s the one with concerns,” Peter drawled out carefully.

“About me?” Neal seemed baffled.

“Yep. She seems to think that somewhere along the line you may have been the victim of a sexual assault,” Peter said as he stared deep into Neal’s blue eyes.

“Why would she think that?” Neal appeared astounded.

“You tell me,” Peter raised his eyebrows. “What exactly did you say to her to make her get that impression?”

Neal shrugged innocently. “I can’t remember my exact words but it was something along the lines that it was a damn shame that a woman felt so devastated by what happened to her that she thought the only way to get over her pain was to end her life.”

Peter didn’t answer; he just sat quietly and kept up his unwavering stare until Neal felt compelled to continue. “Look, Peter, Chief Benson is the head of a department that deals exclusively with sex crimes. That’s her sole focus, so maybe when she hears hoofbeats, she automatically visualizes zebras. I can’t fault her for being zealous, but in this instance, she’s overreaching and way off base.”

“So, you swear you were never raped while in prison?” Peter demanded clarification.

“I swear nothing like that ever happened in the cinder block halls of my former residence,” Neal insisted. “Now, can we put all this nonsense to bed, once and for all?”

Peter was relieved. “Yes, we can, but just know that you can always talk to me about anything, Neal. Well, maybe not something incriminating about a crime that you’ve committed. But otherwise, I’ll always have your back and I’ll keep your secrets.”

“Good to know,” Neal murmured. “Now, other than trying to be a psychic looking into my past, did the SVU chief have anything for us on the husband’s whereabouts?”

Peter shrugged helplessly. “She clued me in about the upcoming interment of the banker’s wife, so we’ll have agents checking out all the mourners to see if a grief-stricken husband decides to man up and make an appearance.”

“I doubt the jerk will show,” Neal murmured.

~~~~~~~~~~

Later that evening found Neal on his balcony with a glass of wine in his hand. He was mentally rehashing his conversation with Peter. Neal felt certain that a dead woman’s spouse would stay away from her funeral because he was a heartless and cowardly excuse for a man. He reminded Neal of his own father, another screwup who fled and saved his own skin, discarding a wife and a child as if they were mere flotsam from his miserable life.

As he grew up in WitSec, Neal came to view his mother as a victim, unable to overcome the tragedy that had altered her life forever. She just seemed to stop caring about the positive things in her world, namely a young boy who desperately needed her.

So, since her nurturing was lacking, a deprived child sought it out from others. It started in school. He craved accolades from his teachers to validate his worth and he became the perfect student. He had friends his own age, but that wasn’t enough to fill a void left by a father figure he only vaguely remembered. He would have benefited from some male bonding time, if only there was a man in the Caffrey home.

When a young boy entered third grade at the age of eight, some of Neal’s angst was miraculously fulfilled. He had an art class built into his schedule, and his God-given talents could finally shine. He produced pictures displaying his brilliance, and his teacher extolled their virtues. In fact, the man made Neal his special protégé, introducing him to more sophisticated mediums of watercolors and oil paints.

Having been made aware that the budding little Michelangelo was fatherless, the teacher took it to the next level by becoming his mentor. He introduced an avid pupil to the masters in local art museums, carefully explaining different techniques and their applications to a canvas. He worked with Neal, one on one, after the school day had ended and only the janitors were stalking the halls washing the floors and emptying trash bins. The intensity of this tutoring was necessary because there was an upcoming state-wide art contest, and Neal’s entry could possibly vault him into the realms of a future creative genius.

Each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday when his art classes were scheduled, Neal would carefully bring a work in progress to school tucked securely in an art tube for his teacher’s critique. The young boy had named the piece, _A View From My Window_. And that’s exactly what it depicted—a landscape of trees, fences, and study brick houses against a blue sky. Neal was quite proud of his work, and as it grew and was fleshed out on canvas, he let himself become a bit hopeful that he had a chance to win the contest.

After one Friday session, the teacher invited Neal to his home to see a treasured heirloom—an actual picture done by folk artist Grandma Moses. When Neal seemed less than impressed after viewing the painting, his teacher seemed disappointed.

“Did you know that Anna Moses didn’t begin painting until she was 78 years old?” the teacher said solemnly as he placed an arm around Neal’s shoulders. “I think it’s a shame that she had so little time left in her lifespan to gift us with her treasures. That’s why I’m trying to help you reach your zenith at an early age, my boy. You have so much untapped potential,” the man whispered as his warm hand was suddenly rubbing circles on a young boy’s back, then dropping sinuously down farther to his buttocks.

Neal felt like a deer frozen in fear and indecision. It certainly wasn’t a case of fight or flight, but more like petrified anxiety. This was an adult teacher who was pulling him close and stroking his body. Hadn’t he always craved attention, but now that he was actually getting a form of it, somehow it wasn’t going as he had expected. To be honest, Neal wasn’t sure what he expected because he had no frame of reference to parse it. So, he allowed the seduction to continue as his clothes were slowly stripped away. He watched in a sort of disconnected fugue state as the teacher carefully folded each of the items and placed them on the arm of the sofa. Then Neal allowed himself to be manipulated like a mannequin until he was positioned face down on the nubby fabric of the seat cushions. It wasn’t long before he was closing his eyes tightly as the pain began. He held his breath so that no pitiful moans could escape his lips, and mentally took himself away to a different place, perhaps somewhere in that sunny vista portrayed in his painting. This wasn’t happening to him; it was happening to someone else.

When it was finally over, he stayed prone on the sofa and allowed the hitch in his breathing free rein. The teacher reacted by carding his fingers through the crying child’s hair. “I know that was uncomfortable for you, my poor little one,” he whispered in the boy’s ear, “but I promise it will get better with time.”

“I want to go home,” Neal heard himself whimper.

“I’ll take you home soon,” the teacher promised. “Why don’t I grab a bowl of ice cream for you while you get yourself dressed. I have your favorite—Rocky Road. And before we leave, we’ll have to have a little man-to-man talk.”

After Neal heard his molester’s footsteps recede, he forced himself to sit up, desperately trying to ignore the burning sensation surging through his violated body. He was completely dressed when the man reappeared and placed a dish of ice cream in his lax hands.

“Look at me,” the teacher instructed. “What happened between us tonight was something very special and it bonded us together. Not many eight year-olds are mature enough to handle that, but you’re one of the rare, unique individuals much wiser than your years. That’s why I chose you. We can’t let anyone else know about this little secret that we have because they’d be jealous, and we can’t have that. A teacher has to appear to remain impartial without favorites, but we both know you’ll always be my special pet. I have so much more to teach you about art as well as about other secrets of life, sweet boy. Now, can I count on your silence?”

Neal’s eyes were wide when he simply nodded, but it was in that moment that an innocent boy had lost his childhood. When he was dropped off later that night at his home, his mother was already asleep. He crept into his bed, pulled the covers over his head, and stayed that way for the rest of the weekend. Not even his mother could lure him from the safe haven of his room.

Late on a Sunday night, Neal forced himself to rise like a zombie from the grave. With a frenzied determination, he collected all of his colored pencils, his charcoal sticks, his watercolor box, and his jars of paint. He threw them all into a pillow case along with his treasured _“View From My Window”_ landscape that he had torn into small pieces. He carted everything to the outside trashcan for disposal on Monday. He wished the small back yard had a firepit because then he could have placed everything related to art on a funeral pyre until it became ashes. Something had died in him that weekend, and if he could have burned away what happened, then perhaps he could rise again like the mythical Phoenix.

So, a determined survivor defiantly returned to art class on Monday but refused to participate. In fact, he turned in no work for the rest of the semester. He avoided eye contact with the teacher and rushed out the door as soon as the bell rang indicating the period was over. The now uneasy child predator wondered where this rebellion was going, and he held his breath. In fact, he broke all the rules by rewarding an unproductive student with a “C” on his report card at the end of the semester. It would be the only mediocre grade Neal would receive during his lifetime.

For Neal, it was over and done and he couldn’t undo what had happened. As he matured and thought back on the incident from time to time, he vowed it hadn’t defined the person he had eventually become. Just as he had told Detective Olivia Benson yesterday, someone can certainly dominate a person physically, but they can’t dominate your spirit if you refuse to let them. You shouldn’t just throw in the towel and see yourself as not worthy of living because of the acts of depraved individuals. That means the bad guys win. You should just get past it, never look back, and live the life you’re meant to live. Peter could never know of a young boy’s secret that a man now carried within his soul. Nor could anyone else. Neal Caffrey should always be viewed as a survivor, never a victim. So, with that in mind, some dark things would always remain buried away from the light.


End file.
